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The first few days after Sam meets Dean on the bridge, he does his best not to think too much. To exist in the moment. He has questions, of course—they both do. But the soul-deep ache he’s lived with for decades fades a little more every time Dean laughs, or squeezes his shoulder, or says his name, and those things happen a lot here.
It helps that with each day that passes, they find their step together, as if, like Dean promised him all those years ago, they were never really apart. They explore their new home, sharing coffee on the porch in the morning, swimming in the lake in the warm afternoons, and barbecuing every perfect summer evening before they sit out to watch the stars with Miracle lounging at their feet. Dean explores the barn, which is sound and dry with doors large enough to park the Impala inside, and a full complement of tools to keep her engine purring and her chrome gleaming. Sam starts working his way through the library, and there’s a whole section of rare arcana—including some of the most critical copies from Bobby’s library—but he also finds a wall of novels and nonfiction about history, astronomy, even a few true crime. The woods have trails full of forget-me-nots, and clear, dappled streams, and toadstools for Miracle to sniff.
For the most part, Sam’s bed goes unslept in. It started that first morning, when they’d talked all night and Sam was still struggling to believe any of this was real, and Dean had led Sam into his room and stayed close until he fell asleep, as if it was something they did all the time. They still haven’t talked about it. But for two grown men who had spent most of their lives sleeping alone, it’s been surprisingly easy to adjust. On the rare occasion that Sam does start out in his own room, he’s learned that if he wakes in the night and the thirty or so feet between his room and Dean’s is more than he can stand, Dean will let him in under the covers without hesitation.
Sam realizes after a while that somewhere along the line, he stopped counting days. The evenings have started to get cooler, though, which they’d been wondering about; apparently, it’s not summer all the time. One night Dean cooks his special mac and cheese, and Sam lights a fire in the fireplace, thinking about what their place will look like when it snows, and wondering if he can convince Dean to go snowshoeing with him.
“Hey,” he says, feeding another piece of kindling to the fire and watching the flames flicker to life. “You think we should go find Mom and Dad?”
Behind him, the domestic sounds of Dean puttering around the kitchen pause while Dean thinks about it. “Yeah. In a day or two, maybe, yeah.”
Later, with their bellies pleasantly full and Sam washing up while Dean dries, Sam says, “And what about after that?”
“What do you mean?” Dean asks, with an odd note of apprehension.
“I mean, it’s Heaven, right? I guess we can do anything.”
Dean brightens. “We should make a list.”
Sam nods. “We should make a list.”
* * *
“The Grand Canyon.”
“Obviously.” Dean lounges on the couch with Miracle, Sam across from him, a pad of paper propped on one knee. While Sam’s writing, Dean says, “Someplace with a beach, and fruity cocktails with umbrellas.”
“What, like Florida?”
“No, man, of course not Florida. What’s wrong with you?” He thinks for a second. “Do you think we need airplanes here?”
Sam considers, pen hovering above the page. “I mean, it’s Heaven. That’s gotta mean we can just…go there, if we want, right?” Another thought occurs. “Or maybe we just show up at the airfield, and there’s a private plane?”
“Absolutely not. There’s definitely no airplanes in my Heaven.” Dean looks at the ceiling. “You hear that, Jack?”
Sam smiles a little. “Hawaii, then? Or maybe the Caribbean? I’ve heard Turks & Caicos is nice.”
“Turks and—how do you even know that? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But I’m thinking…Fiji.” Dean gets that look on his face that Sam knows means he’s thinking about girls with dark eyes and brown skin in tiny bikinis.
It hits him all over again, that this is real. This is Dean, his Dean, and he gets to keep this, maybe forever.
“Fiji it is,” he says, and writes it down. Miracle hitches himself up on Dean’s chest, demanding more attention.
Dean obliges, devoting both hands to petting more vigorously. “What about you? There’s gotta be some nerdy place with historical ruins, or like, the biggest museum on Earth that you’ve always wanted to go to.”
Sam laughs. “Just one?”
Dean’s look is slightly pained. “I mean, can’t we do one at a time?”
“Of course we can.” Sam thinks for a moment. There’s Petra, and Machu Picchu, and Angkor Wat. He’s never even seen Stonehenge. But he thinks he knows one Dean will especially geek out over. “Egypt,” he says. “The Great Pyramid.”
Dean brightens immediately. “Hell, yeah. The Valley of Kings? Indiana Jones and King Tut? I’m in.”
Sam writes it down, not mentioning the museums he writes in parentheses. “What else?”
The look that comes over Dean’s face is one hundred percent kid in a candy store. “Dude. Led Zeppelin. Backstage passes.”
Sam nods, and thinks for a second. “Iron Maiden, circa 1985.”
“Damn straight.”
More possibilities leap to mind. “The Rolling Stones. Santana at Montreaux, 2011.” He grins, despite himself. “Box tickets to game six of the 2011 World Series.”
It takes Dean a second—it’s been a while, even in Earth time, since they made it to a game, and the MLB was always beyond their pay grade. “What was that, St. Louis vs. the Rangers? The one with Freese's two-run triple in the ninth?”
“Exactly. Went to 12 innings, remember? We listened on that ancient radio at Rufus’s place in Whitefish.” Dean blinks at him like Sam’s just handed him a bottle of Johnny Walker, a pile of money, and a steak dinner wrapped up in a bow, and Sam chuckles. “You okay?”
“Oh, I’m good. I just might need a minute.”
Sam looks at his brother, alive, whole, and free four feet away from him, and knows just how Dean feels. And because he’s starting to actually believe in it, he smiles, and says, “Tell me about it.” When Dean looks up, he doesn’t even try to hide it, just lets the light he feels show on his face.
“Quit it, you freak,” Dean says, throwing one of Miracle’s tennis balls at him, though the faint flush on his cheeks is apparent in the firelight.
“Nope,” Sam says, and lets his smile widen, not looking away for a second.
“All right, all right, gimme a break, willya? We’re planning our epic Winchester World Tour, here.”
Miracle brings the tennis ball back in record time, dropping it on Dean’s chest, and Sam snorts faintly. “Somebody else missed you.”
“Missed you, too, buddy,” Dean says, kissing the dog on the head and hugging him close. Sam stretches his arm out to get in on the love fest, and gets a couple of licks of appreciation in response.
A thought occurs to him. “Do you—I mean, do you think it’s really him?” At Dean’s look, he elaborates, “I mean, do you think dogs have souls?” He keeps scritching while Miracle’s wagging tail thumps Dean’s thighs.
“I never thought about it. But…yeah, maybe? I mean, they have emotions. Most animals do. Souls and emotions kinda go hand in hand, right?” Miracle surges up and licks Dean on the mouth as if he’s casting his pro-animal-souls vote. “Dude!”
Sam laughs. “I think he agrees with you.”
Despite his protest, Dean lets the dog have his way with licking his face, making little effort to hold him off. “So, all good dogs really do go to Heaven,” he manages between licks.
Sam gives Miracle the extra special ear rubs he knows the dog loves most of all, doing his best to do so without interfering with his love-mauling of their mutually favorite person, his heart too large for words. “Apparently.”
* * *
The next morning, they’re out on the porch while the sun sparkles on the lake. A woodpecker taps knock knock knock high up in the trees.
Dean spreads the list out on the arm of his Adirondack chair. “So how do you think this works?”
Sam rolls his right shoulder—the one he messed up all those years ago—and it feels like new. The arthritis in his hands is just a memory, along with the ever-present pain in his back and bum left knee. He takes in a deep lungful of fresh mountain air, and thinks about it. “I think maybe it’s just...intention, you know? Like how we found this place.”
“So, what? We made the list, and now we just…pick one? Click our heels together three times?”
Sam shrugs. “Pretty much? I mean, it’s worth a try.” He watches his brother peruse the list. “Why, what are you thinking?”
One of the items on the list catches Dean's attention, and he chuckles. “The Eiffel Tower? The Taj Mahal?”
Sam’s cheeks warm, but he stands by his choices. “Sure, why not? I mean, we saved the world, right? Least we should do is go see some of it.”
Dean nods good-naturedly. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”
“So?”
Dean meets his eyes, challenge accepted. He makes a shooing gesture with the list. “So, get a move on, Sammy. Go put some clothes on, and we’ll see if you’re right.”
* * *
“I hate to say I told you so,” Sam says after a while.
“No, you don’t. You freaking love saying I told you so.”
“Uh-huh, like you don’t.”
“Do you think they’re real?” Dean asks quietly, watching the cars and the people along the Seine in the soft glow of the sunset. He glances over his shoulder at the couples taking selfies, the retirees pointing out Paris landmarks. “I mean, is this the real Eiffel Tower on Earth? Or are they, like, window dressing?”
Sam glances around, taking in the details. “I think it’s like a memory, maybe. Like this is one perfect day, you know?” The sunset over the city, spread out in a tapestry beneath them, certainly seems to be putting on a show. “Heaven used to be made up of memories, right? Maybe this is something like that.”
Dean thinks about that, then grunts agreement. “I mean, makes sense, right? That whole, balance of the universe thing. Each soul in its place.”
“Exactly.”
Dean huffs a laugh. “Wish we could ask him, you know? I mean, it’d be nice to wrap our heads around it.”
“Maybe that’s the beauty of it,” Sam suggests. “We don’t have to any more. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, the Empty—it’s not our job any more. Maybe we can just…”
“...be,” Dean finishes.
They fall quiet for a while, watching the lights appear across the city. At some point, Dean slings an arm around Sam’s shoulders, and it’s good. Better than good, Sam thinks. He’s never seen his brother so relaxed, or felt so close to him.
When the tower lights come on, Dean pats him on the shoulder and jerks his chin toward the stairs. “What d’you say, sailor? Buy me dinner?”
* * *
They find a brasserie, which Dean of course thinks is hilarious.
“Haha,” Sam says. “It means brewery, actually.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Dean approves, as the smell of grilled meat beckons them inside.
The servers all speak English, and the menu is mostly things they both recognize from Dean’s old cooking shows, so in a few minutes they have two tall glasses of beer and have placed their orders. Dean leans back in his chair and surveys the room, looking content. “Gotta hand it to you on this one, little brother. Paris ain’t so bad.”
“So, you’re saying I was right.”
“I’m saying, we coulda done worse for our first stop on the Winchester Bucket List. Speaking of—” He pulls the list out of his pocket and spreads it out on the table between them, crossing Eiffel Tower off with a pen he snags from the next table. “S’pretty funny though, when you think about it.” At Sam’s look, he elaborates, “All the times we drove back and forth across the country, we had to kick the bucket before we got around to making a bucket list.”
“Well, to be fair, we were pretty busy at the time.”
“True that.”
As Dean studies the list, Sam watches him and tries to remember the weeks right before their last hunt. The things that had seemed important then. What their lives had been like. It’s not like he’s forgotten completely—those days have played over and over in his head for years—but remembering what it felt like to be that person, that Sam Winchester, is a different story. “You still want to go see Mom and Dad tomorrow?” he asks at last.
Dean meets his gaze, studying Sam’s face in return. “I think so, yeah. What about you?”
“Yeah, I think so. I think it’s time.”
“Okay, then,” Dean says, and it’s settled.
Their food comes, a welcome distraction, and Sam listens to Dean extol the virtues of his steak frites, more than happy to watch him give in to his carnal nature and wallow in savoring every bite. Dean has always loved his creature comforts, and Sam has always loved enjoying them vicariously, even though he pretends otherwise. It’s not like he thinks he’s fooling anyone—he knows Dean puts on a show specifically for him. It’s a game they’ve played most of their lives, and one he’s missed more than anyone else would understand.
He digs into his own steak, and thinks, in this case, Dean has a point. “Oh, my god,” he says with his mouth full.
“I know, right? Maybe the French do know a thing or two.”
Sam laughs, washing down the bite with his beer. He feels…happy isn’t a big enough word. Having Dean all to himself the last few weeks has been his definition of heaven, and a part of him would be fine with it if Heaven was only the two of them, forever. But being out in the ‘world’ with him is good, too.
Dean watches him with that fond, big-brother look that Sam’s never gotten tired of: the one that says Sam still comes first for him, and nothing will truly be wrong in his world as long as Sam is safe, and content, and within arm’s reach. It still makes him self-conscious—probably because he knows he shouldn’t like it as much as he does. And maybe it’s that certainty that gives him the courage to ask something that’s been nagging at him.
“What about Lisa and Ben?” he says, keeping it as neutral as he can. "Or Cas?"
Dean stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. His expression goes through a kaleidoscope of micro-reactions that only someone who knows him as well as Sam does could read.
He doesn’t answer at first, just puts the bite of steak in his mouth and chews it thoughtfully before washing it down. “What about Eileen?” he counters. “What about—Dean Jr.?”
“That’s different,” Sam says.
“Oh, yeah? How?”
“DJ’s still alive.” At his brother’s skeptical look, he clarifies, “I mean, I know, time is different, or whatever, but in my head, he’s still alive. I’m in no hurry for him to get here, believe me.”
Dean takes that in, and nods. “Okay, I get that. I hope Ben is in the prime of his life, with like six or eight rugrats running around. Maybe even a few grandkids by now. Lisa, too.” He gives a soft laugh. “I mean, that woman will probably live to be a hundred, at least.”
“Exactly. So?”
“So, that’s different. You had a life with her. You raised a kid with her.”
Sam knows that Dean still struggles with the reality that Sam’s lived three decades without him—and honestly, the more time he spends with his brother, the harder it’s getting for Sam himself to feel like that was real, and not some fever dream. He opens his mouth to try to explain, but it sounds a little insane even in his own head.
Dean adds gently, “I’m just saying, we’re gonna go see Mom and Dad tomorrow. Don’t you want to see her?”
Sam rubs a hand over his mouth, thinking about how he really feels. At last, he says, “Yeah. I do, man. I want to see Jessica, too. I want to see Bobby, and Ellen and Jo, and everybody else we lost over the years.” He doesn’t miss the almost imperceptible flinch in Dean’s expression at the mention of Jess’s name; even after all this time, on some level, Dean still blames himself for Sam losing her. Still believes that the only reason Sam came back to him was because Jess died—which feels like centuries ago, at this point.
“So?” Dean says, pretending the mention of Jess hasn’t thrown him.
“So, we’re still figuring this place out. I’m saying, let’s take it one day at a time. I’ll see Eileen when the time is right.”
The series of reactions that plays over his brother’s face is subtle, but Sam is starting to realize that whether it’s a feature of Jack’s Heaven, or whether it’s just how much time he spent thinking and dreaming about his brother after he was gone, he can read Dean better than ever before. He wonders if the reverse is also true. Their last few years together, they’d finished each other’s sentences on the regular, but here, it’s as if they don’t even have to pretend.
“She was a friend,” Sam clarifies. “One of the best. Me and her, we had an understanding, and I spent years missing her when she died. But it wasn’t the same.”
A pink flush rises in Dean’s face. His gaze meets Sam’s, and Sam doesn’t look away. He knows, even though Dean doesn’t say anything, that Dean gets what he’s saying.
There’s a question or two he still wants to ask, but like he said, here, they have time.
* * *
Going to see Mom and Dad is a prospect laden with history, and they don’t really need to rehash all the reasons why. The last time they were all together was the fallout of Dean’s wish on the ancient Chinese pearl. There had also been Dean’s wish with the djinn decades ago, not to mention angels meddling in the timeline. Basically, they both know that as much as they’ve both yearned for things to be easier in their family, any closure they may have found in those stolen moments is one-sided at best, and always hurt the most after it was taken away. All of that falls into the unspoken subtext category.
This time, however, it’s not a wish. It’s not a trick. Which makes it a thousand times more complicated, since there are still uncounted unresolved issues with their actual dad, who almost certainly has no memory of those pocket universes, and who may or may not have any real understanding of who Sam and Dean grew up to become. And Mom—that’s a whole different truckload of unresolved baggage for both of them. Not to mention the elephant in the room.
In the car on the way there, Sam finally puts words to what they both lay awake thinking about the night before. “Do you think they know?”
“Know?”
“Our history. You know. Our past.” Sam hesitates. “Last time we saw Mom, Jack killed her. And now, he’s—”
Dean gives a bitter laugh. “Yeah, could be awkward.”
“And last time we saw Dad—I mean, our Dad—”
“—He sold his soul for me. And that was before basically, well, everything.”
“Exactly.”
“So, you’re asking if they know? Like…anything about our lives? Who we really are?”
“Basically, yeah.” Sam hears the unspoken levels of Dean’s question, which boil down to the same doubts running through his own head. Do they know about us?
Dean, driving, processes that. Sam watches his profile as he has for most of their lives.
“Honestly? I got no idea.” There’s a pause, in which Dean mostly watches the road, but gives Sam one sidelong glance. “Not too late to turn around.”
“I’m not saying that.”
Dean nods, and says in his resolved voice, “Okay, then.”
Sam lets out a breath, and nods in echo. “Okay.”
* * *
It turns out that one thing, at least, hasn’t changed about the way that Heaven works; the road still takes them wherever they want to go—and as soon as their intentions are firm and in sync, it’s not long before a turn comes up. A ways back, they’d left the forest behind, and now fields of wheat ripple in the sun as far as the eye can see. But ahead, there’s a big old spreading walnut tree at the corner of a smaller road. Under it is a deserted farm stand, advertising plums, apple butter, and pumpkin streusel bread. Sam’s stomach growls. “Oh, hell yeah,” Dean says, already slowing to pull over on the shoulder.
The pumpkin bread smells amazing, and it’s still warm. A big basket with a handle hangs from a nail, and they load it up with as many items as it can hold. Sam exchanges a quick smile with Dean, and knows they’re thinking the same thing; it never hurts to show up with gifts.
“Wait, wait,” he says, stopping before they get to the car. “You think we should…I don’t know. Pay for this stuff?”
Dean chuckles. “There’s that overdeveloped conscience of yours. Dude, it’s Heaven.”
“Well yeah, I know, but I mean, not with money, or whatever.” At Dean’s look, he makes a face. “I just feel weird taking so much.”
“Sam. Look.” Dean nods back toward the farm stand—which is still overflowing with fruit, hand-labeled jars, and incredible-smelling muffins and loaves of bread. “I think we’re good.”
They climb back in, and Dean takes the turn, driving unhurried with a muffin in one hand and his elbow propped out the open window. Sam selects a plum from the basket and bites into it, closing his eyes and moaning slightly as the juice trickles down his chin. He senses Dean’s eyes on him, and looks over to catch his brother’s soft, fond look of amusement. “What?” he says with his mouth full of fruit. “S’delicious.” The slanting afternoon sun is turning Dean’s eyes that shade of green that doesn’t look real, catching in his hair and turning it golden blond. Sam’s heart gives a kick he can’t define, and doesn’t bother to try to. He finishes his bite and wipes his mouth, the nectar sticky sweet. Dean’s still not watching the road, one hand on the wheel. Before he can overthink it, Sam extends an arm. “See for yourself.”
Dean’s eyes crinkle as he does as Sam says, taking a big bite between Sam’s finger and thumb, and then his eyebrows make a double arc of appreciation. Sam’s mouth quirks. “Told you.” Then he laughs, a feeling like warm spun sugar in his chest, and Dean snorts softly as he finishes his bite.
“Yeah, totally normal,” he says, turning his eyes back to the road. But he says it without concern, as relaxed as Sam’s ever seen him.
Sam finishes the plum, licking the sticky juice off his fingers. He gets what Dean’s saying without needing to ask. Tossing the pit out the window, he nods to himself. Whatever happens, they’ll be all right.
* * *
The house looks vaguely familiar, like a combination of farmsteads they’ve passed outside of Lawrence, no one in particular. There’s pumpkins on the wraparound porch, a bundle of flint corn on the door, and the trees are starting to turn. Dean lets the car slow to a stop and turns off the engine.
Sam takes in the vegetable garden on the south side of the house, the flower boxes full of mums on the porch railing. The late afternoon sun catches in a stained glass transom window above the door. But the sound of the Impala’s engine is unmistakable, and before they can even get out of the car, their mom appears around the side of the house, wearing gardening gloves and carrying a trowel, her face lit up with delight.
“Finally!” she says, pulling off her gloves and hurrying to meet them as they climb out. She embraces Dean, then doesn’t let go as she beckons Sam into the embrace and hugs them both fiercely.
Dean is too overcome to even say anything, and holds her tight, resting his chin on her head. He closes his eyes, but not before Sam sees him tear up. “Hey, Mom,” Sam says for both of them. He squeezes his brother’s shoulder, wraps his arms around them both, and the three of them stay like that for a long space of heartbeats.
Sam’s a little teary himself by the time they let go and Mary stands back to get a look at them.
Sam isn’t sure what he expected. She looks younger than she did when they last saw her, though older than she did when they traveled to the past. Joy radiates all over her face, and she looks like—he realizes belatedly—she did when he saw her as a ghost, what feels like lifetimes ago. She looks like she probably did when she died the first time, when Sam was six months old. Her hair is shorter, though, close to how he remembers it. “John!” she calls out, not taking her eyes off them.
The front door opens, and they all look in that direction. Sam can feel Dean’s anticipation vibrating in the air like the hum of a transformer. John appears in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of him. He looks a lot younger, too. It makes sense, Sam realizes. Sam apparently ended up here the same age he was when Dean died, as if their souls were inextricably linked. Still, it’s a little weird, seeing his dad look younger than he does—and if it’s a soulmates thing, that’s one more tick in the family reunion awkwardness column.
Then John laughs, a sound Sam never heard him make in life: light and free and without grief, without the weight of all that he’d lost.
“About time,” he says, the deep growl of his voice both familiar and not, much like the smile that breaks over his face.
* * *
“You know, Jack came to see me once,” Mary says, as she and Sam snip herbs from the garden. Dean has taken over dinner preparations, assigning John to get the grill going while he organizes the kitchen, sending the two of them out to harvest parsley for the steak butter, chives for the potatoes, and mint for dessert.
“He did?” Sam thinks about Jack a lot, but is surprised to hear he makes house calls.
“Mmhmm. It wasn’t long after things…changed.”
It takes Sam a moment to understand what she’s referring to. “It’s hard to talk about, isn’t it?” he offers. “The way time works here. The way—” He tries to find words, but even though he was there at ground zero, he still doesn’t fully understand how the fabric of the universe was altered by what they did. What it must have felt like, to be there when Heaven changed from a staticky radio station playing your greatest hits on repeat to the real thing.
“Yeah, it’s all pretty existential, if you think about it too hard.” She smiles at him sidelong. “I honestly try not to.”
It makes sense, Sam realizes. If Jack felt he owed anyone special treatment, it would be Mary. “What did he…did he say anything?”
She sighs, putting her parsley harvest in the basket between them and dusting off her hands. “Not really. Just said that things were going to be different from now on, and that he regretted what happened. That he was going to make sure this place was what it always should have been.”
Sam nods, processing that. He puts his own clippings into the bowl and straightens up. “I’m glad,” he says, trying to feel it. “You deserved better.”
“No argument here.” Mary gives him a searching look. “What is it?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Sam. Talk to me.”
Sam meets her eyes in the late afternoon sun; she looks back, giving him the same laser-insight look he remembers from long ago, and it’s still just as tough to resist. Hesitantly, he says, “All those years after—after Dean died, I prayed to him—to Jack, I mean—and he never answered. Honestly, after a while, even with all I knew, I…didn’t know what to believe.”
“That must have been so hard.” Sam swallows, her empathy hitting him where it counts. He’s tried not to spend much time thinking about the years after Dean died, or how difficult it was to keep going. “Was it a long time?” she asks then, her voice gentle.
Remembered grief that was his touchstone for over three decades wells up. “Yeah,” he manages. Dean is right inside, he reminds himself. He’s here, and he’s not going away. But remembering what it was like to live without him for so long makes that knowledge feel unbearably fragile, like if he’s not careful, he might still wake up from the dream of the past few weeks. “It was.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary says. “That must have been really difficult.”
“It was a nightmare.” He clears his throat, and does his best to ground himself before he loses it. “But I…I had a son. He kept me going.”
Mary’s face lights up. “A son? Really?”
“Yeah. His name was Dean. I mean, I didn’t even name him that. I found him on a hunt not long after.”
Mary beams, and her smile is unbearably beautiful to Sam, healing places within him that he doesn’t have words for.
She says, “Tell me everything.”
* * *
The smells of the grill heating and potatoes baking reach them when they get back to the house, Sam can hear the low tones of Dean and their dad in the kitchen, and the tenor makes him hesitate in the front hall.
“Sam?” his mom asks.
Keeping his voice low, Sam says, “Should we, I don’t know. Give them a minute?”
But Mary smiles. “There’ll be time,” she says. “As much as we need. Tonight, we can just—be together. Yeah?”
That, Sam knows, is what Dean wants most of all. What he’s always wanted. And it’s in that moment that he realizes, tonight is for his brother. Sam himself is beyond grateful to get a chance to see their mom again, and to see her and their dad finally happy together. But for him, it’s still a little abstract. He understood long ago that he’s always been the outlier in the Winchester family—that as much as he loves his parents, and as much as they love him, family, for him, will always mean something different. He tried more than once over the years to get closure with John, but those moments were fleeting, and ultimately, he had to come to terms with the fact that his dad—his real dad—was never going to remember any of them. He’s had decades to accept it.
He nods, finding a smile for his mom. “Yeah.”
* * *
“When did you learn to cook like this?” Mary asks, watching Dean carefully pour off bacon grease from a small frying pan. The kitchen smells amazing, and Sam’s stomach is growling despite himself. Dean even blanched asparagus for him, specifically, and made a light dijon dressing for it like an afterthought. The last couple of weeks, he’s already been spoiled by Dean’s cooking on the regular, but Dean’s clearly making a special effort tonight.
Dean huffs a laugh, embarrassed, and glances at John. “I mean, know my way around the kitchen, but I wouldn’t say—”
Sam can’t keep quiet. He protests, “Dude. You used to watch old episodes of Cook’s Country.”
“So?”
“You own four aprons.”
“You gave me at least two of them!”
“Yeah, because you’re a great cook.” Both Mary and John give them odd looks, and Sam tries to cover. “He is!” Dean makes his ‘stop talking’ face, and Sam laughs and spreads his hands. “What? You are.”
Dean’s plainly torn between mortification and gratification. Color suffuses his face, and he makes himself extremely busy with whisking something in a small pot that smells incredible, like bourbon and vanilla. “Whatever. Make yourself useful, willya?”
Sam gets the milk out of the fridge without thinking about it and hands it to him.
“And get me the—”
Sam spots a small dish of orange zest on the counter, and hands that to Dean, too. It’s only as Dean’s whisking both into the pot that Sam realizes neither of those were, technically, actual instructions. Mary and John are watching them with equally inscrutable expressions, and Sam feels his own face warm.
His heart sinks. What did Dean say? Totally normal.
Please let him have this, he thinks without meaning to. He doesn’t know if Jack—or Cas—is listening, but he can’t help it. Please.
* * *
They sit down to dinner on the back deck as the sun sets, a glorious, late summer symphony of color painting the sky. Fireflies blink in the deep shadows beneath the trees.
The food looks and smells amazing. Before they dig in, John brings out four ice-cold longnecks from the cooler and pops them open, handing one to each of them. He raises his, and they all echo the gesture.
He looks around the table at each of them, a lifetime of regret on his face. “Being here, it gives you a lot of time to think. I always wished I could have done better for you boys. But your mom…she told me about you two. That you saved the world more than once.” He swallows, obviously overcome with emotion. “I know I got a lot of catching up to do. This place…hopefully, I’ll get a chance to do that. And to make it up to you.” He looks to Mary, and raises his beer. “All of you.”
Sam doesn’t really have words for how he’s feeling. He glances at his mom, and they share a moment of connection. Their family has never had a chance for normalcy, and of the four of them, Sam and Mary are maybe the two who ever really tried. Sam also thinks that she understands that this night is all about Dean—that he’s the one who needs this, and he’s the one they’re here for. It’s the closest he’s ever felt to his mom.
But then he looks at Dean, and sees how desperate his brother is for this to go well. This night is all Dean’s wanted since he was four years old, and there’s nothing Sam won’t do to give him that.
He clears his throat. “Did Dean tell you about Miracle?”
“What miracle?” says Mary, following Sam’s lead.
“Miracle is a dog,” Dean clarifies. "He's our dog." He meets Sam’s eyes for a second, and that’s enough for them to share the memory of what it had been like, thinking that they’d failed the whole world. How alone they’d felt, and how desperate they’d been for any sign of hope.
They tell their parents about Miracle, about their cabin on the lake, about the final battle against Chuck. Mary and John talk about what Heaven has been like for them: about reuniting with both their parents, and how they look forward to the whole family getting together. How much they want Sam and Dean to meet John’s mother Millie, the only grandparent they’ve never met. Sam tells them about DJ, and what the world was like in the mid-to-late-2000s. It’s all pretty surreal.
Sam and Dean clear the table while Mary and John get a fire going in the firepit out back.
“You okay?” Sam asks, as he puts the leftovers away while Dean starts on the dishes.
“Yeah, ‘course I’m okay. You kidding?”
“I know, but—” Sam stops. “I know it’s weird.”
“Dude, weird is our whole lives. Wouldn’t be real if it wasn’t weird.”
Sam lets out a laugh. “Can’t argue with that.”
Dean gives him a sharp look. “What’s goin’ on with you?”
“No, nothin’, man. Just.”
“Just what?”
“I mean, I’m not trying to look a gift horse, you know? I’m not.”
“You sure? Because it kinda seems like that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“Dean.” Sam puts down the dishes he’s holding, and meets his brother’s gaze. “I’m not. I swear. This is great.” At Dean’s dubious look, he asserts, “It is, I mean it. It’s great. Just making sure, you know. That you’re okay.”
“I’m okay. Dude, I am better than okay.” He gives Sam an intense, searching look. “Aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” he says, and it’s mostly true. He doesn’t think he can actually lie outright to Dean here, nor does he want to, but apparently mostly true still counts. “I’m good.” He meets his brother’s gaze, and feels his true North come into effortless alignment. “I’m good.”
* * *
“Don’t you think it’s a little…strange?”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know, just…how they are together. The cabin. The—” John waves a hand unconsciously toward the kitchen. Sam, listening, ducks back slightly into the shadows inside the door.
“Honestly? No, I don’t.” When John doesn’t say anything, Mary goes on. “You didn’t see them the way that I did. The way they came to rely on each other. Took care of each other. That bond, it kept them alive, kept them whole, against odds I can barely even imagine. It’s why you and I found each other again—why this place is what it always should have been. Nothing about their lives was normal, John. Not from the day they were born. You should know that better than anyone.”
“You’re saying I did this? That the way I raised them—”
“I made the deal with Azazel. Not you. And I had time to come to terms with that. Sam forgave me. They both did.” Mary reaches out, brushing his hair back and laying a hand on his cheek. “The past is the past. Look at them. They’re happy. Be happy for them.”
John struggles visibly for a moment, but finally closes his eyes and turns his face into Mary’s hand, kissing her palm. He takes her hands in his and meets her eyes. “Our boys,” he says, and there’s a lifetime of pain and love in the way he says it.
Mary nods, with a soft, sad smile. She leans into his embrace, an answering well of pride in her voice when she says, “Yes.”
* * *
Dean drives them home under a bright harvest moon. There are no other cars on the road, and no street lights, but the moonlight is more than enough to guide them.
Nearly ten minutes have passed with both of them lost in their own thoughts when Dean says, “Weird, seeing Dad like that.”
Sam glances over. “Like what? Happy?”
Dean grunts. “Yeah, but, I mean—it’s more than that.”
Sam thinks about that. “Kinda feels like we never really knew him.”
“Like he was always carrying this weight, and it made him into some other person.”
Sam nods. “Yeah, exactly.”
Dean’s quiet for a minute, thinking about that. “I used to try to remember him,” he says at last. “Like, how he was before, you know?”
Sam turns to study Dean’s profile. “You never told me that.”
Dean shrugs one shoulder. “It’s been a long time since I tried. And I mean, not like it woulda changed anything.”
“Fair enough,” Sam says softly. He watches the moon float over the trees, thinking about how hard it’s always been for them to talk about this stuff. Dean had so many raw spots when it came to their family, and Sam learned over the years not to poke the bear; the few times he had, it only drove them apart. Besides all the other gifts this day has brought them, he thinks it’s the first time he and Dean have ever been able to really talk about either of their parents with each other. The first time they were able to create a shared memory of their family, together, that they could keep.
“Thanks, Jack,” he murmurs to the moon.
He startles a little when Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes—but only a little. He’s starting to get used to the idea that he gets to have this. That they get to have this.
“So,” Dean says, “where to next, little brother? Great pyramids? The Grand Canyon? Woodstock?”
“Absolutely. All of the above.” Don’t overthink it, he tells himself, and puts his hand over Dean’s, squeezing back. “Tomorrow.”
Dean nods and smiles, meeting Sam’s eyes for a second before giving the engine a little more gas. “Yeah, Sammy. Let’s go home.”
~ end ~